Chapter 68 Elliot #2
He’s heavy, and his skin is burning hot.
It sears where we touch, making me arch to meet him, struggling as I try to get closer.
He pushes himself up on his elbows and lines himself up.
I watch as he does it, and I think of all the times I’ve been in his place.
I’ve had lots of guys on their backs. Lots of girls too.
Usually, I love this moment. The second right before shit gets real.
That brief point in time when legs are splayed open and a worried little hole winks nervously at the head of a dick.
I love it. I love knowing exactly what’s about to happen.
Knowing how it’s going to feel. The rearing need as my dick strains to thrust. The anticipation of that pulsing squeeze.
Sinking into a snug sleeve for my throbbing cock.
The dizzying height of being right on the cusp of wanting something and getting it.
Stuart must be feeling that now. He must know I’ll be tight and warm inside.
He must know it won’t go in easily. He must be expecting the tension, that deep push and pull.
He must know it won’t be long until he feels it, the tightness and warmth.
The smooth slide. The relief of being inside someone else.
He reaches down and notches his head against my opening.
He was right. It does feel like pressure.
A heavy weight. A dense force. He takes his time, pressing gently as my ass twitches and struggles against the intrusion.
He holds firm. Steady and consistent like always.
Unblinking as he splits me open. I don’t move.
I don’t buck or complain. I hold still as I feel myself stretch and sting.
Jesus, the sting. He gives me more as soon as I’m ready, thrusting deeper every time he wins out against my spasming hole.
He slips through my ring with a grunt and a sigh.
My lungs open, and I revel in the feeling.
Deep pain.
Good pain.
Good pain.
The kind of pain that shoots up my spine and arches my back clear off the mattress, forcing a thin, primal cry from low in my chest.
He stills, watching me, checking on me, moving slowly so I can feel every inch of him.
Giving me the gift I’ve never trusted anyone else enough to ask for.
A sharp sting, a dull tug when he moves, a deep ache that quickly starts throbbing.
He starts moving in earnest, tentatively gliding into my ass until he meets resistance and then pulling back and doing it all again.
Rubbing me raw. Rubbing me sore. Powerfully stroking the most sensitive parts of me, stoking sensations that others might feel as pain, letting them build, giving them air, letting them flare.
Watching calmly as my nerves and brain scramble the feelings.
Pain grows and blooms, stretching grotesquely, opening and blossoming into something beautiful.
I reach for my dick, desperate to chase the feeling into something bigger, but Stuart bats my hand away.
He takes a wrist in each hand and stretches my arms above my head, pinning me as he starts thrusting in earnest. I struggle but only to test his strength, to prove to myself that he has me.
That he’s bigger and stronger. That I’m safe in his arms.
I am.
I’m safer than ever.
Pleasure and powerlessness engulf me, thrumming through me in furious, fluid waves.
I look up, studying his face, trying to etch it into my memory, wanting to cling to everything about this moment.
His eyes are half-closed and thin rings of blue swim around blown-out black orbs.
His jaw clenches and relaxes with each thrust. He moves carefully inside me, thrusting smoothly, sliding his thick, bulbous head back and forth over my gland.
Hard and fast on the in-stroke, slow and considered on the way out.
He does it until I’m struggling for real, until I’m pleading for more and begging for release.
“Please, Daddy, please!”
He lets go of one of my wrists and sits back on his knees.
He takes my free hand and guides it down, but instead of allowing it to latch on to my leaking cock, he guides it lower.
He takes my fingers and gently makes me touch myself where his body meets mine.
My rim feels unfamiliar, smooth and stretched out.
So sensitive that a light touch makes me howl.
I circle his dick at the base, and to my amazement, I find he’s holding back.
He has at least an inch he hasn’t given to me.
That makes me howl too. It makes me thrash to get closer to him, frantically trying to drag him deeper inside me.
He holds me down with one hand and starts stroking my dick with the other.
The fight leaves me. I’m stunned. Paralyzed by pleasure.
My eyes slam shut and my head arches back.
Ecstasy darts from my ass to my balls to my dick.
Up my legs, up my spine, all the way to my fried brain.
He keeps fucking my ass, circling my dick tightly in his hand, pumping slowly.
He removes the hand holding me down and lets me fuck into his fist unbridled.
I’m rampant. Bucking wildly. Thrusting my hips to meet him with no care for the well-being of my plundered hole.
Opening myself and embracing the sweet feeling of fullness.
Excess. Completeness. I moan my ass off, making sounds I’ve never heard coming out of me before.
Everything is bliss. Everything is euphoric.
It’s so good, I can’t imagine any way it could get any better.
But it does. My orgasm bursts to life, nothing one second, and then it’s all I know.
Shooting and spraying, pulsing and clenching as Stuart fucks me straight through my orgasm and into his own.
His pace quickens. Above me, his jaw tenses and his eyes grow dull and unseeing.
We both cry out, deep, raspy moans from him and shrill, helpless shrieks from me.
Guttural, grating sounds that ring out over and over until Stuart’s heavy body collapses onto mine.
Stuart’s in the car, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, waiting for me.
It’s a Cadillac from the late nineties—the first car he ever owned.
All boxy lines, swoopy curves, and pristine leather interior, complete with an electric-blue paint job.
Even without Stuart in it, it’s sexy as hell. With him? I’m toast.
Since I got here, I’ve seen him washing it a lot and faffing under the hood, but this is the first time I’ve seen him take it out. I feel nervous and overexcited and spoiled rotten to be allowed to touch such a machine, much less ride shotgun.
“Where are we going?”
“Marco’s,” he says.
Marco’s is one of the best Italian restaurants in town. The food is amazing and the prices are hair-raising.
“B-but I thought you said I couldn’t afford to go to places like Marco’s anymore?”
“Oh, you definitely can’t.” His lips peel back and his eyes flicker with humor that turns into heat. He cocks his head to the side and says, “But your Daddy can.”
I feel like I’m floating. Hovering a couple of inches above the ground. Drifting off into the ether from nothing more than a collection of letters and sounds. Like that, I’m drunk again. Completely intoxicated. Woozy as fuck from a few choice words.
I talk nonstop all the way to the restaurant.
My voice is high-pitched, and I know I’m laughing too much and too loudly.
I can feel it, but I can’t stop it. I couldn’t begin to tell you what I’m talking about, and that’s probably for the best. I’m pretty sure my executive function is at an all-time low.
Marco’s is lovely as always. Swathed in gleaming dark timber, white linen, and moody black-and-white photographs of Old Hollywood stars.
Each table is set with an excess of silver, and there’s a small vase with fresh sprigs of rosemary and a jewel-colored cut-glass holder with a tea light flickering in it.
Stuart pulls my chair out for me, and as I sit down, I feel where he’s been. I’m a little tender. Bruised in the very best way. Bruised from being used by the sexiest man on the planet.
My head spins from the thought.
I love it.
Stuart is talking, but his words are coming at me slowly.
Best I can tell, he’s talking about wine pairings and sensible meal choices.
He’s talking quietly. Using an inside voice specifically designed for polite company, a husky sound that caresses me like a tongue running up my spine, making me think and feel things that are in no way appropriate for polite company.
I realize he’s stopped talking.
I look up at him and bake under his gaze when our eyes meet. My insides feel hot. So hot I find it hard to sit still in my chair. I squirm hard to feel where he was more.
He watches me with a detached sort of interest before leaning forward in his chair, scooting one side of his mouth to the side in something that resembles a smile. “Are you sore, little boy?”
If you’d told me a few months ago I’d get off on being called little boy, I probably would have rolled around laughing.
I’d have thought you were crazy. I’d probably have asked if I could have a hit of whatever you were smoking.
I had no idea that two little words could snap me in half and rub me together.
I had no idea that a person existed who could make sparks fly with two words.
No clue that someone could undo me with nothing more than a smile that wasn’t even a smile.
“Uh,” I say after a few shallow breaths, “a little.”
“Good.” This time, the smile is a smile.
It’s a smile and a half. A dark, languid smirk that looks like everything good in the world got put through a blender.
He circles my wrist lightly and runs the pad of his thumb over my pulse.
“As long as you’re my boy, I’ll make sure you’re sore on the outside and the inside. ”
My jaw drops and I blink rapidly several times. I feel like I'm outside my body. Like I’m floating again. Drifting slowly down to Earth. Landing lightly. Grounded by the warmth of his touch. Catapulted into the stratosphere by his words.
The evening takes on a magical quality. Candlelight glitters and streaks into long splinters of light when I blink.
Stuart’s eyes blaze. Flames flicker. Reflections from the candles, I guess, but right now, I’m not a hundred percent sure.
If you were to tell me he was glowing or able to generate fire, I’d probably believe you.
When our food arrives, Stuart takes his time selecting a perfect bite.
He spears a scallop and twirls fettucine on his fork until it’s a perfect, compact mouthful, then he lifts it to his lips and blows on it two or three times before holding it out to me.
I drop my fork with a loud clatter and hold on to the edge of the table in an attempt to keep my shit together.
My face is hot, and I’m brim full of arousal and a heaped serving of humiliation as I lean in.
There are people all around us.
I’m twenty goddamn four, and I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.
Still, I lean forward and take what he’s offering.
By the time the satisfying starchiness of the pasta mingles with the delicate sweetness of the scallop, the humiliation is gone.
It’s gone completely. Gone without a trace.
I feel coddled and pampered as fuck as I chew.
I feel taken care of and smug and spoiled, and for the first time in my life, I relate to Jessie. I relate hard.
Even though the setting is idyllic, and the food and wine are delicious, every time I open my mouth, I have to fight an almost irresistible urge to say, “Can we go home, please, Daddy?”